


To Lucasta: On Going to the Wars

by writteninhaste



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell me not sweet I am unkind; that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind to war and arms I fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lucasta: On Going to the Wars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tellytubby101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tellytubby101/gifts).



> Written for the Valentine’s Day fic exchange. Inspired by Alfred Noyes’ poem [ ‘The Highway Man’](http://writteninhaste.livejournal.com/33213.html)  
> Many thanks to my betas **[OneWhoSitsWithTurtles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoSitsWithTurtles/pseuds/OneWhoSitsWithTurtles)** and **promarcello**. All mistakes remaining are my own.

_Tell me not sweet I am unkind, that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, to war and arms I fly. True a new mistress now I chase the first foe in the field and with a stronger faith embrace a sword a horse a shield. Yet this inconsistency is such that thou shalt too adore. I could not love thee dear so much, loved I not honour more._

~Richard Lovelace

With Dom home safe, Arthur had taken his paycheque and retired from the world of Dreaming. It was an uncomfortable transition. Arthur yearned for the raw matter of creation. It was an itch that crawled beneath his skin; ants biting at his bloodstream. But Dom had captured Arthur with some umbilical connection and with him gone Arthur was unable to remain afloat in the game.

Arthur retired to Los Angeles, south of Dom’ Pasadena Eden. He bought a well appointed three-bedroom house with beautiful views of the ocean and plenty of space in which to move about. He had pleasant neighbours, a quiet social life; and acquired a more-than-modest salary consulting for those agencies willing to overlook past discretions. The set-up was idyllic. The only fly in the ointment was Eames.

Eames had never been welcome in Arthur’s home, regardless of where that home was. He had not been welcome in hotel rooms, in rented rooms, in any of the nooks and crannies in which Arthur had ever taken the pains to establish himself. So it surprised Arthur, even more than it annoyed him, when Eames chose Arthur’s house as his place of refuge.

* * *

Arthur woke within moments of the first knock upon his door. Old instincts raised their ugly heads. Arthur had a gun in his hand and a bullet in the chamber before his brain had time to fully process the motion. The pounding continued. Arthur had neighbours. If this continued for much longer they would wake and begin to ask questions. Arthur would really prefer a life without questions.

He slipped through the hallway, gun held low as the shadows gnawed across the floorboards. The pounding broke for a moment and Arthur raised his gun in anticipation. Two more knocks; but they were weaker than before and Arthur heard the definite scrape and thump of something heavy hitting the ground outside. Cautious, Arthur reversed course. Slipping from the kitchen door he padded around the corner of the house. The security light caught a leg and a foot. The rest of the body was obscured on Arthur’s front porch. Arthur crept closer, cursing a blue-streak when he finally got a good look at the bloodied, battered face currently slumped against his door.

Eames looked remarkably worse for wear. He was senseless by the time Arthur had hoisted his weight and managed to carry Eames into the house. In the light, Eames’ injuries looked even worse.

Bruises mottled Eames’ face, skin splitting open like rotting fruit across the bone. Blood had congealed with sweat and other fluids to crust across Eames’ lips and down his chin. Swearing, Arthur propped Eames against the bath. He ran his hands across Eames’ ribs. There were no breaks that he could discern but the bruises across the back of Eames’ hips were ugly and raised the question of internal injuries. Dampening a cloth, Arthur wiped the mess from Eames’ face as best he could. The bones in Eames’ left cheek felt splintered and Arthur would not be surprised to learn Eames had lost a number of teeth. The beating had been a royal one.

Sitting back on his haunches, Arthur tossed the bloody washcloth into the sink where it leached pink water into the porcelain bowl.

“Eames. Come on.”

Were the circumstances different, Arthur might have shaken Eames, tapped his cheek or delivered a light slap to the face. As it was, Arthur kept his wrists dangling between his knees, balancing easily on the balls of his feet as he called Eames back to consciousness.

“Eames.”

Eames groaned, bloody spittle seeping past his lips as he tried to push himself upright. He immediately sunk back again, pain warping his features. Arthur moved, bracing Eames gently into a firmer sitting position.

Eames wet his lips, coughing twice before he had enough breath to speak. “Thanks.”

Arthur nodded. There was little love lost between himself and Eames but he was hardly going to leave the man to bleed on his doorstep. Filling a glass with water he tipped it to Eames’ lips. Eames let him do it. It was an indication of just how much pain he was in that he did not try to hold the glass himself. Eames coughed; spat a half a tooth and some blood onto the bathroom floor. Then let his head fall back against the glass of the shower-screen.

“What happened?”

“Prendas sold us out. Mala Muerte.” The name registered as a small-time gang operating both sides of the Mexican border. The significance of their involvement escaped Arthur but it was clear Eames was finding it difficult to speak. Trying hard to do as little damage as possible, Arthur helped Eames to his feet. It took longer than it should have done for Eames to walk the short distance to the bed. Arthur deposited him on the mattress gently but Eames still went white with the effort. Arthur frowned. The blood would come out of his sheets but he would rather not have Eames die on them.

“There’s a doctor I know. He’d be willing to make a house call.”

Eames did not seem to hesitate. “Okay.”

“Okay? Just like that, okay?”

“You trust him? I trust you.”

Arthur’s eyebrows crawled towards his hairline but he plucked the phone from its cradle nonetheless. The conversation was short. By the time Arthur had ended the call Eames’ breathing was no more laboured that it had been when he arrived. It was a small mercy, but at least it meant Eames was unlikely to take a nosedive towards the finish line unexpectedly. Arthur stayed in the bedroom, leaning against the farthest wall until headlights swung into his driveway. Eames appeared to have slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Paul Bowen had once been quite handsome but time and a fistful of shrapnel from an RPG had taken what looks he had once possessed. He nodded when Arthur opened the door, gun in hand, following Arthur’s wave towards the bedroom.

Arthur had known Bowen back when he was still a medic serving in the Middle East. Now he was the physician to any number of mercenaries and those soldiers who had obtained injuries they would rather not have logged officially. Bowen examined Eames with clinical efficiency. Arthur stood in the doorway to the bathroom and watched. Eames managed to stay conscious for the visit, answering questions with the minimal exertion and knowing enough not to bullshit his answers when asked how much pain he was in.

Bowen scribbled out a prescription for antibiotics Arthur knew Eames would take and one for a series of painkillers that would probably go unused. Eames, sensing they were finished with him, let himself fall back asleep. Arthur noted with interest the amount of trust Eames was putting in him. He had not even asked for a gun before Bowen’s visit.

“He’ll probably sleep a good twelve hours.” Paul said, following Arthur back towards the front door. “Let him. Fill both prescriptions and make sure he finishes the antibiotics. The infection’s minimal at the moment but you don’t want it getting worse. Call me again if the pain hasn’t become any more manageable within the next few days.”

Arthur held out his hand, clasping Bowen’s arm in thanks. “I’ll wire the money to your account.”

Bowen did not protest. If he were a different sort of man he might have waived the fee for a friend but that was not how this game was played. With a nod he was gone, car slipping out of the drive on near-silent tyres. A glance at his watch told Arthur the sun would be up within the hour. No point in trying to sleep now.

He checked briefly on Eames, satisfied he was sleeping easily thanks to the mild sedative Bowen had given him. The coffee machine Arthur kept in his kitchen was temperamental at the best of times and downright argumentative at worst. With a wish and a prayer Arthur pressed the start button. He was unsurprised when the machine belched rudely at him and promptly powered down. With a sigh, Arthur fished the instant coffee from the cupboard, spooning a healthy measure into his mug and flicking the kettle to the ‘on’ position. Outside, an overly optimistic bird started on the dawn chorus.

Idly, Arthur stirred a spoon through the coffee grounds in his mug. He would be able to fill the prescriptions Bowen had left as soon as the pharmacies opened but the mess that he would incur were Eames to die during his absence was enough to give Arthur paused. He felt no particular concern for Eames, himself, but Arthur had put a lot of time and effort into making his residence here smooth and easily unnoticed. Having to explain to the authorities why a bruised and bloodied man was lying dead between his sheets would raise Arthur’s profile in ways he would rather do without. The kettle began to judder towards boiling point and Arthur lifted it from its base, still mulling over the problem. The water was a little too hot and the scent of scorched coffee filled the kitchen. Arthur winced but dutifully stirred the instant mixture into submission anyway, taking a hefty gulp of the scalding liquid as soon as he had dropped the spoon into the sink.

Arthur kept a perfunctory watch over Eames as the man slept, drinking bad coffee and reviewing the paperwork he was preparing to submit to the FBI on a fraud case. Eames slept on, despite the noise Arthur made taking a shower and getting dressed for the day. The bruises looked slightly better in the light of day, away from the harsh halogen bulbs of Arthur’s bathroom. The awful purple-black mess on the side of Eames’ face looked less like putrid aubergine. Arthur checked Eames pulse with quick efficiency, ready to drop Eames anonymously at the nearest hospital and wash his hands of the whole affair, if it looked like Eames was worsening. His pulse was much as it had been. Arthur left a brisk note detailing where he had gone, with strict orders not to do anything that might cause Arthur complications, before pocketing his car keys.

The daughter of the family across the road was busy tugging a rather fat and reluctant Labrador down the street; the dog seemed perfectly content to lie down in the middle of the driveway and play dead. His neighbour – the impeccably nosy wife of a retired businessman – was already fetching the paper when Arthur stepped out of his house. She waved, ambling over before Arthur could return the gesture and duck hastily into his car.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Schulyer.” The woman was perfectly coiffed and beautifully turned out even at this early hour. For all her prying, Arthur rather admired the woman. Hers was a dedication to form that drill-sergeants the world over salivated over.

“I heard an awful commotion last night, Arthur. Is everything alright?”

Will-power and years of training kept Arthur’s distaste at the interference from showing on his face. “A friend of mine was in a bad car accident. Nothing too serious – they released him from the hospital. But I had to go pick him up.”

“That’s terrible. Well I hope he’s going to be alright.”

“He should be fine. He just needs to rest. I was just running out to fill these prescriptions.”

“Well, dear, let me do that for you. After such a nasty accident you shouldn’t be leaving your friend on his own.”

Arthur was ready to protest but the task would satisfy the woman’s curiosity for the time being and it would mean Arthur could ensure Eames did not expire in his absence. Smiling, Arthur thanked her and handed over the prescriptions along with the date of birth that matched the name on them. It was one of Eames’ lesser identities; hopefully it would not flag if anyone were watching.

“I’ll go now, bring these right over.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shulyer.” The gratitude was only partly feigned. With a wave the woman was back off across her lawn, immaculate blouse and neatly pressed pants looking fresh and painfully crisp in the sunlight.

* * *

Eames woke just as the sun was making the final steps over the horizon.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

Arthur passed over a glass of water, the antibiotics and the painkiller following soon after. Predictably, Eames took the first and spurned the latter.

“Can you stand through a shower?”

Eames frowned and made a valiant attempt to push himself upright. He got out of the bed but his right knee gave out almost instantly.

“Not without help.”

“Sit down.”

Arthur fetched the old stool he kept in the garage. The bath was just about wide enough to accommodate the legs. It would do well enough for Eames to get clean – even if it was not ideal.

“Here.” Arthur shouldered most of Eames’ body weight. It was more than it had been the last time they had worked together. “You know, there is such a thing as too muscular.”

“Really?” Eames seemed perfectly disinterested.

Carefully, Arthur helped Eames from his clothes, dumping the soiled items unceremoniously on the floor. Eames hissed as the water hit his back but he did not say anything other than to ask Arthur to help him reach.

There was no room for embarrassment. Arthur let Eames brace himself against the tile and did the work for him. By the end, Arthur’s shirt was damp with spray and Eames looked ready to pass out again. Less than thrilled at the prospect of having to haul Eames’ dead weight over to the bed, Arthur dried him with more care than he might otherwise have shown. He left Eames sitting with the towel around his shoulders as he stripped the bed of the soiled linens and procured some pyjamas for his guest. Eames muttered his thanks. He sounded painfully sincere.

“I have questions.” Arthur informed him.

“I’ll answer them in the morning.” Eames drew the covers up to his chest. He looked ill and drawn.

“You should probably take one of the painkillers.” Arthur said. “You’d sleep better.”

Something shifted behind Eames’ eyes. “I’d really rather not.” His knuckles were white on the covers. Arthur did not press the issue.

He resumed his seat on the other side of the bed, prepared to work by whatever light was available through the window.

Eames twisted rather painfully to stare at Arthur over his shoulder. “You staying?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I could go.” He did not point out that it was his bed. Arthur felt the tone of his voice said everything.

“No.” Eames rolled back over. “Stay. Sleep with a gun under your pillow.” He was asleep before Arthur had a chance to question him.

* * *

“I would have thought Mala Muerte too small-time to be much of a bother to you. Considering the company you keep.”

Eames winced as he sipped his tea, blotting at his lip to check if the split had begun to bleed again. “Burned those bridges a while ago.” Eames said. “Not really so keen on making friends again.”

Arthur took a bite of his salad, chewing steadily on a lettuce leaf as Eames drank his tea. “So you came here.”

Eames smiled. It looked as though it hurt. “Well, yours is a remarkably formidable reputation, Arthur. I was rather hoping it might act as a deterrent.”

“Yours wasn’t enough anymore?” Arthur asked. And then, because he could not resist the taunt. “But of course – they managed to catch you. Less impressive after that.”

“They were waiting for us when we woke up.” Eames said. “Prendas must have had them waiting in the wings. I’m lucky they didn’t just execute us whilst we were sleeping.”

“Why didn’t they?”

Eames snorted. “El Jefe likes to play with his food.”

“If he likes it that much I doubt coming here will stop him.” Arthur said. “I won’t fight your battles, Eames.”

“If it comes to that Arthur, I’ll take my leave. But to those who don’t know you, you are something of a bogeyman.”

“And to those who do know me?”

“You’re still a scary mother fucker.”

Arthur smirked down at his plate. He did not ask how Mala Muerte got involved with Eames’ job. Frankly it was not his concern and once Eames was well enough to move Arthur fully intended to send him on his way.

“I can go elsewhere.” Arthur looked up, surprised. Eames was staring off into the distance. “I know you’re still in contact with Cobb. If he’s likely to make an unexpected appearance in the near future, tell me now. Wouldn’t want to put the Cobblets at risk.”

Despite the cavalier tone of Eames’ voice, Arthur knew he was serious. It was the one rule Arthur had never known Eames to break. He did not endanger children: physically, emotionally or psychologically. Arthur had known Eames to walk away from at least two very lucrative paydays when it became clear his employers had no scruples with regard to children. He had also sabotaged the jobs in question.

“Cobb’s in Paris visiting Miles. The kids are with him.”

If Cobb were still in Los Angeles the situation might be different but if Arthur was honest with himself Eames looked like shit. He could barely stand and even eating seemed painful for him. There was still enough of the young Marine in Arthur that he could not, in good conscience, kick Eames to the curb. Brothers in Arms and all that: after a fashion at any rate.

They ate in silence for the most part. Eames related the bare bones of the mess with Mala Muerte and Prendas’ betrayal in between miniscule mouthfuls of food and larger gulps of tea. Arthur was not quite as convinced as Eames that the mere threat of their combined reputations would be enough to deter an assault. Privately he assembled a rough contingency plan should his doubts be proved correct.

Eames pushed his plate away despite there still being a good half of his meal on it. Arthur frowned but collected the plates and cutlery anyway, scraping the leftovers into the bin and setting the rest by sink to be dealt with once he had Eames settled somewhere more comfortable. Arthur could tell Eames was chafing a little under the constant observation but Arthur dislike the way Eames was still favouring his left side; the way he tended to press hands to the bruises decorating his liver when he thought Arthur was not looking. He watched as Eames hobbled to the sink and knocked back the latest dose of antibiotic together with a handful of water. The painkillers were somewhere in the sewage system of Los Angeles by now. Arthur had been livid when he found Eames tipping the entire prescription down the toilet. Eames had simply looked at him and growled “no narcotics” before collapsing inelegantly onto the edge of the bathtub. Looking at the pinched lines of Eames’ face – the fine tremor running through his hands – Arthur let the matter drop. His file on Eames might have been more hearsay than actuality but some things were self-explanatory. Arthur did not need the history behind them.

Leaving Eames to settle himself on the sofa, Arthur excused himself to his office. A quick call and he had the bare bones of Mala Muerte’s power-structure. Eames was right. They really were small time. Arthur had faced off against far more dangerous people in his career. From what Arthur could learn, the gang were squatting on their haunches waiting for Eames to emerge. One man should not have been enough of a threat to thwart the vengeance of an entire pack but apparently the rumour that Arthur was both willing and able to skin a man alive (and crack jokes whilst he was at it) was still making the rounds. Still, the cease-fire would not last long. Eventually, pride would overrule any trepidation the group might feel. Time for a pre-emptive strike.

* * *

“The FBI just arrested the head of Mala Muerte.”

“Really?” Arthur looked past his own reflection to where Eames was standing in the doorway. The bruises on Eames’ face had faded to the sickly yellow shade that meant they were finally beginning to heal. With the flaking scabs and slightly misaligned cheek he looked grotesque. Arthur’s hands continued to tie a perfect Shelby even as he watched Eames scowl at him.

“How much is this favour going to cost me?”

Arthur settled his collar and smoothed a hand down his tie. “Nothing at the moment. But I’ll be keeping it in reserve for when I need a favour of my own.”

Eames’ face relaxed as though he had been expecting Arthur to extract a price he was unwilling to pay. “Fair enough. I’ll be out of your hair in a few days. Just give the bruises a chance to fully fade.”

“Alright.” Shrugging on his suit jacket, Arthur reached for the briefcase he had left perched by the dresser. “The laptop in the office has an untraceable I.P. and the line in there’s secure if you need to do any business.” Eames raised an eyebrow. Arthur pushed past him, moving to the front door. He had a meeting to attend. “Oh, and you can earn your keep by picking up the groceries I need. There’s a list on the fridge.”

Arthur swept out of the house before Eames had a chance to object. The sun was unseasonably hot as Arthur slid into the front seat of his car. If this was the beginning of an early heat wave Arthur was tempted to take himself to cooler climes.

His inclination only increased as the day wore on. By the time Arthur was crawling through the traffic on his way home the air was thick and heavy. Los Angeles was hardly known for its humidity but it would seem the city had decided to buck the usual trend.

Arthur gave a tired wave to Mrs. Shulyer as he unlocked the front door. For a moment he thought the woman was going to ignore all social cues and actually try to start conversation but he need not have worried. Her husband had once harboured enough political ambition that she was well-versed in reading a crowd and playing to their wishes. Arthur was able to get inside without incident. He knew at once that Eames was gone.

The house was too still. Arthur gave the place a cursory examination nonetheless but every room was back to its immaculate norm. The fridge was full, Arthur’s completed grocery list lying on the table, but other than that there was no evidence Eames had ever been there at all. For all Eames’ earlier declarations that he intended to stay for a couple of days, Arthur could hardly claim to be surprised.

* * *

Phillipa’s laughter squealed through Arthur’s open kitchen window as he fixed a tray of drinks. Arthur glanced up, tracking Phillipa’s progress across the garden as she chased James on chubby little legs. A quick glance at Cobb proved him to be even more vigilant that Arthur.

Gathering the tray, Arthur shouldered his way into the garden. Cobb did not get up to help, eyes still scanning for any potential dangers to his children; perhaps Arthur had made a mistake informing Cobb of Eames’ visit.

“Legal life still treating you well?” Dom asked. He accepted the glass Arthur passed him, calling Phillipa and James over to do the same.

“Well enough.” Arthur answered. “Pays well.”

Dom huffed, lips quirking. “Yeah.” He took a sip, pausing only to warn James not to gulp so much. “Perhaps we’re overly materialistic.”

Arthur laughed, tossing Cobb an amused glance. “Accustomed to a certain lifestyle – let’s put it that way.”

“James, do not eat that.” Cobb leant over to pluck the struggling worm from his son’s fingers. “You miss it though.” He said, turning back to Arthur.

“Not enough.”

“Enough to what?”

“Not enough to run away and join Eames on some mad escapade – if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“I wasn’t until you mentioned it.” Cobb said. He sighed. “You know you don’t have to put your life on hold just for me, don’t you, Arthur?”

Arthur shifted in his seat; placed his glass deliberately on the table between them. “Do you still see Mal every time you dream?” Cobb’s silence was answer enough. “Then I’m staying.”

Dom ran a tired hand over his face and downed the rest of his drink. “Yeah, I thought you would say that.”

Arthur watched James turn a messy somersault over the grass; watched as he grinned in triumph at his father and then proceeded to do it all again.

“Are you going to stop feeling guilty any time soon?” Arthur asked.

Cobb scowled. “I don’t have to explain my behaviour to you.”

“No honour amongst thieves after all.”

Dom cut Arthur a calculating look but did not apologise. Arthur had learnt not to expect much from Cobb these days. He enjoyed his martyrdom too much.

* * *

The box arrived at Arthur’s downtown office: a nice, spacious corner unit he had managed to secure upon retirement. The concierge handed it over with a blank, professional smile and wishes for a good day.

It was heavy. Suspicious, Arthur waited until he was in his office to investigate. The package showed no evidence of a carrier or indeed and origin of destination. The only identifying marker was a rough pencil etching in the top corner. Anyone else might have dismissed it as a doodle but Arthur recognised the old ‘all-clear’ he and Eames had used once upon a time. The others who had known that sign were all dead. It was strange to think, that of the ten bright idealists who had once thought they could change the world, only he and Eames were left.

Arthur cut the tape binding the paper. An ordinary-looking cardboard shoebox slid onto Arthur’s desk. The large Asics swirl dominated the landscape but Arthur could see no other hidden messages from Eames in the packaging. Curious now, he opened the lid, letting it fall back on its paper hinges against the desk. Arthur nearly choked on his own spittle when he saw the contents. Kossof deserved more respect than that.

It was small for one of Kossof’s works but the lines were unmistakable. Arthur was not particularly surprised Eames had stolen the piece but he was surprised that Eames had chosen to send it here. Surprised, and a little concerned. Lifting the paper carefully, Arthur turned it in his hands. The work seemed to be in almost perfect condition. Arthur would have expected nothing less. The note, nestled at the bottom of the box was simple: _Consider it a thank you. – E_.

Arthur sat at his desk and contemplated the Kossof Eames had stolen for him. The gesture was nice as far as it went. Arthur appreciated the gift; he liked Kossof – always had. But, though the gift was nice, Arthur did not feel gratified or flattered. Somehow, the gesture fell flat. Inexplicably disgruntled, Arthur put the painting back in the box. He plucked his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket; he dialled a number he knew by heart. The call went straight to voicemail.

“Thank you.” Arthur told the machine. “Don’t do it again.” He hung up. Then lifted the Kossof out of the box again. What the hell was Eames thinking, sending a _Kossof_ in a shoebox? Arthur’s phone rang just as he was mentally compiling a lecture on proper preservation of artwork for the next time he saw Eames. Looking at the Fairfax area code Arthur slid his fingers across the butt of his gun.

“Yes?”

“I’m sending a dossier to your account.”

Arthur tucked the phone against one ear, using his free hand to bring his computer monitor to life. A double click brought him into the secure network he kept for these sorts of communications. Scrolling down, Arthur stopped at a greyscale surveillance photo. The woman looked pinched, tired. Her right hand was wrapped around a throw-away coffee cup; the other pushing her hair back from her face. She was wearing the same corduroy jacket she had been wearing last time Arthur had seen her.

Arthur moved past the photo, scanning over the background information.

“Your girl’s making quite a name for herself.”

“She’s not ‘my’ girl.”

The voice on the other end of the phone laughed. “Do you think she would be amenable to a fixed income, protection from prosecution and a chance to be one of the good guys?”

“Were you planning on giving her a choice?”

“Why do you think I’m calling you?”

Arthur blinked and sat back. “If you think she’s going to say no why bother asking?”

“All those who’ve had a taste of making their own rules want to continue doing so. What I want to know is whether you’re going to provide her with the means to keep doing so or if we have room to manoeuvre?”

“Manoeuvre away.” Arthur perused the information collected so far. Ariadne would not have much chance but to take the offer. She would chomp the bit, defy orders and inevitably break the bars of the cage. Still, the experience would be invaluable for her. And how Ariadne reacted when she learnt of Arthur’s involvement would tell him exactly what sort of person she was going to be.

“We’ll let you know how it turns out.”

“I think I can manage to follow along on my own.”

Another laugh. “I’m sure you can.” There was a click as the line disconnected. Arthur placed his phone gently down on the desk. Scrolling back through the dossier Langley had managed to compile on Ariadne, Arthur noted that the Agency had missed certain key items. Arthur felt no urge to enlighten them.

Closing the computer down, Arthur snatched up his phone and wallet with a sigh. He really need a frame for that Kossof.

* * *

The gun was out of the holster and in Arthur’s hand before his eyes were open.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot.”

“Eames.”

Arthur lowered the weapon. He scrubbed a hand over one eye before propping himself up on an elbow. The gun remained naked on the bedspread.

“Want to tell me, Eames, why I didn’t just shoot you.”

Eames grinned; Arthur could hear it in his voice. “You want to know how I got past your security. Especially considering the rather considerable upgrades you’ve made since I was last here.”

Arthur swore and weighed how much it would cost him to clean the carpet against the satisfaction of shooting Eames. Fumbling for the bedside lamp, Arthur flicked it on. His eyes protested to sudden spike in light; Eames kept his head firmly pointed toward his feet until his eyes had adjusted.

“That was very nice. Thank you, Arthur. Always like to be blinded.”

“Shut up, Eames.” He looked up. “Jesus, can’t you keep yourself in one piece.” Eames lip was split again and the sun looked like it had decided to set over his left eye.

“Well actually, Arthur, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. A little birdie tells me that this is all you’re doing.”

“ _What_?” Arthur grabbed the gun off the bed and kicked the covers back. Eames’ gun was aimed between his eyes but Arthur simply scowled and ignored him. “That,” he said. “Was nothing to do with me.”

Eames did not lower his gun. “Really? Because I was under the impression that you were the one who gave the ‘all-clear’ for the grab on Ariadne.”

Arthur frowned. He flipped the covers back straight over the bed. “What did that have to do with you?”

“She called me for help. Luckily she was sensible enough to just accept the job-offer when they gave it to her; gave me time to do something about it. Still, it wasn’t easy.”

“Where is she?”

Eames laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so, Arthur.”

“I’m not going to sell her out, Eames.”

“No, doing that twice just wouldn’t be classy – would it?”

Arthur sighed. “They already had the information. I just told them I wouldn’t interfere.” Eames heard the unspoken phrase: ‘I can’t think why they expected me to in the first place’.

“Because people keep expecting you to have a conscience, Arthur. So many people have one nowadays; it seems strange that you’re without.” Eames’ aim never wavered. Arthur had to admit he was impressed. It wasn’t easy holding a gun in one position without suffering a build-up of lactic acid.

“Is she alright?”

“Do you care?”

Arthur shook his head. “Not really.”

“Well then.”

Arthur flicked the safety on his own weapon and threw it down on the bed. “Do you think you could put that away now?”

Eames stared at Arthur hard for a moment before sliding the gun into the waistband of his jeans. Arthur was almost sure that was not where the gun had originated. He swept past Eames into the hallway, leaving the other man to follow or not as he wished.

“Like the holster on the headboard.” Eames said. “Out of interest how would you explain it to the cops?”

Arthur smirked and snatched the coffee grounds from the freezer. “Paranoia.”

Arthur fixed himself a cup of coffee, ignoring Eames completely. For his part, Eames seemed perfectly content to simply stand in Arthur’s kitchen, though his hand hovered near the butt of his gun. He did not sit. It would be difficult to do with the gun-barrel sitting so close to his crotch.

“So this is what you do with yourself these days, is it?” Eames asked. “Broker information to the highest bidder and sell former teammates to the very organisations we ran away from.”

“We worked for the Army.” Arthur said.

“Yes, but the orders were coming from somewhere.”

“I don’t share your issues with authority, Eames.”

“Bollocks.”

Arthur stared down at the swirling liquid of his coffee. Eames huffed and snatched an orange from the fruit basket. He dug a grimy nail into the rind; juice sprayed across his chin. Eames chewed momentarily on his thumbnail before stripping the orange in four easy strokes. He popped a segment into his mouth, smacking his lips.

“So why are you doing this, Arthur? Hm? Are you bored? Is this some way of saying ‘fuck you’ to Cobb? Take all his hypocrisy and rub it in his face?”

“This has nothing to do with Dom.”

“No? My mistake.”

Arthur had never ground his teeth; his reactions were never so obvious. He was tempted to start now. Eames spat a pip into his palm and dropped it on Arthur’s floor.

“You know I always thought – way back when – that you were in it for some higher purpose. But that was never the case, was it?”

“Are you surprised?”

“Don’t suppose I really have much room to be, do I?”

Arthur had no idea what that meant. Eames smirked. He did not look particularly amused.

“So, what now? Hm?”

“You could leave.”

Eames pushed the empty rind into the bin, dusting his hands.

“I could.” He agreed. “But quite frankly, Arthur, I want assurances that this sort of thing won’t be happening again and that does not look to be a point you’re willing to concede.”

Arthur’s hand drifted down into his lap, toward the two-shot Derringer he kept taped beneath the breakfast bar. Eames withdrew his own weapon smoothly.

“Ah. Hands where I can see them, please.”

Mutinously, Arthur spread both hands along the counter.

“Now,” Eames said. “I won’t do anything as degrading as taking your gun from the nice little hiding place you have it in. But if you move so much as one inch I will shoot, Arthur.”

Arthur did not need to watch Eames very deliberately screwing a silencer into place, to know Eames was serious.

“I can’t give you that promise, Eames.”

Eames sighed. His gaze flicked to the neon clock of the microwave. With one hand he removed a small vial. He motioned to the kitchen towel sitting near the fruit bowl; Arthur tore a sheet off. Eames placed the vial on the counter.

“I’ll let you do the honours.” Arthur scowled. “Well, I can’t have you following me.”

Furious, Arthur snatched both towel and vial from the work-surface. Laying his cheek on the granite Arthur placed the sheet over his face. The contents of the vial he administered by feel. The world sank into darkness moments later.

* * *

The Kossof was gone when Arthur regained consciousness; Eames with it. There was no note this time. Eames had probably decided that taking the painting was the best way of saying ‘screw you’ at his disposal. Arthur was not as bothered as Eames might have liked to believe. He had never valued art as highly as Eames did. It was an accessory: nothing more.

Splashing his face with cold water, Arthur assessed his situation. Eames had always been the Joker in the pack; too much the chameleon to ever be easily predicted. Still, men with morals could – at the very least – be counted on to adhere to their own rules.

Disposing of the drugged tissue, Arthur shook the remaining drug-haze from his head. He would need to keep an eye out: see how much of a grudge Eames was intending to keep. If things went Arthur’s way, Eames would be too busy helping Ariadne fly below the radar to bother with Arthur. To be safe, Arthur booked a one-way flight to Beijing; Eames would not dare enter Chinese territory – not even to settle a score with Arthur.

* * *

Beijing was hot and oppressive in its humidity. Arthur pushed through the crowded streets towards his hotel. Cobb was still lecturing him steadily over the line and Arthur took a moment to wipe the sweat from the receiver before placing the phone back to his ear.

“ – and I’ve had the Feds on the phone twice now demanding to know when you’re coming back, since you won’t return their calls directly. Legal employment’s not like Dreaming. You can’t just up and leave whenever you feel like it.”

“I don’t work for the FBI.” Arthur said. “Occasionally they pay me for information. There’s a difference.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well are you coming back soon or not?”

“No. I’ve got a flight to Russia in about six hours. There’s a deal I want to broker and it needs to be face to face.” Dom was quiet on the other end of the phone. “Cobb? You there?”

“Just be careful, Arthur.”

Arthur blinked. “Of course.”

“You’ll let me know if you run into any trouble.”

“Sure.”

If Dom could hear the lie in Arthur’s voice he chose to ignore it.

“Good luck in Russia, then. Moscow?”

“Chelyabinsk.”

“I didn’t realise we knew anyone there.”

“You don’t.” Arthur could tell Dom was gearing up for another lecture. “Look, Dom, I’ve got to go. I’ll let you know when I get back to L.A., okay?”

“Alright. Arthur –”

Arthur hung up. No doubt Cobb would have words to say about that when Arthur next spoke to him but for now Arthur could not bring himself to care. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Arthur pushed his way through the doors of his hotel. The staff at reception nodded politely, courteously ignoring him as he made his way across the lobby.

The hotel was air-conditioned and the chill blast of the air in the lift was almost headache-inducing after the warm, wet heat of the city outside. Arthur waited impatiently as the floors cycled by in a continuous _ding_ of life bells. A small, imperious looking man, with a well-matched woman on his arm, was waiting on the other side of the doors when the lift finally reached Arthur’s floor. They stepped aside as Arthur got out, putting an arm back to hold the doors open for them.

His room was at the far end of the hall: a convenience for reaching the fire exit; an annoyance when using the lift. Arthur packed quickly. With a cloth he wiped the surfaces clean of fingerprints. It was not an easy job. Surveying the bed, Arthur checked it for any stray hairs that might have fallen. He had asked for the previous nights sheets to be changed that morning; by now anything containing his DNA should already be an in industrial washer. Finishing wiping the windows, Arthur folded the cloth into neat squares before placing it in his bag.

He made his way back down to the lobby as quickly as possible.

“I’m checking out. Room 823. And a car to the airport please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

The concierge processed the room and passed the bill over on a small lacquered dish. Arthur took the folded paper and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I’ll be waiting over there.”

The concierge glanced at the circle of seats and nodded. “I will let you know when your car is here, sir.”

“Thank you.”

A businessman was fussing with his newspaper as Arthur sat down. The man looked his way but immediately returned his attention to the latest reports from the stock-market. Looking like every other corporate official in the modern age, Arthur scrolled aimlessly through his phone. There were no new messages from his contacts in Chelyabinsk. Arthur took that to mean that everything was on schedule. The businessman was replaced by a blonde teenager in designer shoes: too old to enjoy the family holiday, too young to be left to her own devices. She smiled at Arthur with just enough self-deprecation to let him know that she knew how useless the gesture was but that she had chosen to smile anyway. The smile was pretty and carefully selected. Arthur covered a smirk of his own. She would be dangerous one day. The concierge approached before Arthur could pursue the matter further.

“Your car is here, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Arthur got to his feet; pocketing his phone and nodding to the girl. He added a wink for good measure, enjoying the way she blushed; still young enough to be flustered. The driver was hovering by the door as Arthur exited the hotel, ready to reach for his bags and open the door. Arthur slid into the car and tipped his head back against the seat; time to swap one over-heated city for another.

* * *

Arthur spread his arms as a mountain of a man bent to check him for weapons. His face looked as though he had lost one too many disagreements with a brick wall but his hands were thorough. He even made Arthur take off his shoes – checking the soles before he returned them. Upon request Arthur surrendered his watch, cufflinks and a dummy mobile phone, together with the weapons the pat-down had confiscated. ‘Atlas’, as Arthur had privately dubbed him, took Arthur’s forefinger and pressed it to a palm-pilot. The machine whirred and blinked, loading a digital replica of Arthur’s fingerprint. When Arthur gave no reaction Atlas nodded and let him go. The palm-pilot was passed along the mass of bodyguards, disappearing with a reedy-looking man who wore circular glasses. Disinterested, Arthur resettled his clothing and watched the assembled muscle with a bored expression.

Arthur was straightening his cufflinks when the man he had come to Chelyabinsk to meet emerged from an office towards the back of the warehouse. Polyenkov was a large man: fat but with enough muscle beneath it to make him threatening rather than laughable. He had the look of a once-active man who had gone slightly to seed. But if the bulges beneath Polyenkov’s jacket were any indication: what he lacked in fitness he made up for in hardware.

“Mr. Fontane,” Polyenkov said. “I am Urie Polyenkov. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Mr. Jones.”

“I believe you are correct.” Arthur said, holding out his hand to shake. Polyenkov took it. The handshake was firm, but not testing. Either Polyenkov was doing Arthur the courtesy of treating Arthur like a friend or he simply did not consider Arthur to be a threat. “You have the weapons?”

Polyenkov gestured to the array of weapons cases arrayed behind him. “As you can see. And so Mr. Jones has sent you to negotiate on his behalf. What price are you offering?”

“What price are you asking?”

Polyenkov smiled. “Six hundred a unit for the Travor rifles. Fifteen for the Cornershots. The M-5s and M-16s I will give you cheap. Four-fifty.”

Arthur watched as one of Polyenkov’s men lifted the lid on a weapons cache, handing him a Travor rifle to examine. Arthur turned, hoisting the weapon to his shoulder. Polyenkov signalled for some ammo. Arthur loaded the clip, took aim and released a burst against the farthest wall. Brick-dust blew in a cloud across the warehouse. Satisfied, Arthur turned back to Polyenkov, lowering the weapon. “What makes you think I can’t get these elsewhere?” He asked. Polyenkov scoffed. Arthur looked up from examining the rifle. “You’re not the only one lifting weapons out of the Middle East, Mr. Polyenkov.”

“And your employer is not the only one intending to drop them right back in.” Polyenkov countered. Arthur acknowledged that with a nod.

“Still, six hundred dollars is too much even for a Travor. I’ll give you four-fifty max. Similar mark down on each of the others.”

Polyenkov frowned. “Five-fifty.”

“Five hundred.”

“Done.” Arthur nodded.

 

There was a minor commotion towards the back of the warehouse and Arthur frowned. The thin man with the glasses was hurrying through the crowd. He pressed his lips to Polyenkov’s ear, fingers twitching wildly against his thigh. Arthur’s fingers settled themselves against the trigger of his rifle.

“You have been deceiving us, Mr. Fontane.” Polyenkov said. Around them the army of bodyguards were drawing weapons. “I met you here on good faith. One businessman to another. And now I learn that there is no Mr. Jones. That this meeting was a set-up. That you are really CIA.” Arthur felt his blood run cold. “ _Kill him_.”

Arthur already had the rifle raised before Polyenkov finished speaking. A spray of bullets bit into the wall of guards. There was a cry and at least two fell. Arthur just had time to see Polyenkov grab his arm before he was turning and racing back towards the car he had left outside.

Arthur threw himself into the driver’s seat, ducking wildly as bullets crashed into the windscreen. Swearing, Arthur gunned the ignition. The tires caught against the dirt; raising a shower of gravel as Arthur peeled away from the warehouse. There were shouts and more bullets chased him away as behind him men scrambled for their own vehicles. Arthur spared a glance at the rear-view – cussing when he saw the military-style jeeps tearing after him.

Arthur hit traffic more quickly that he would have liked. The warehouse was at the edge of the industrial district but there were still too many people getting along with their daily lives – even at this time of night. Arthur weaved through the cars as best he was able, scraping sides and curbs enough to know that he was about to attract the attention of the police. The jeeps had not let up. Bullets blew through the rear-window of Arthur’s car, scattering the backseat with glass. Arthur swerved, cutting across traffic to whip down another street. He slammed his foot to the brakes when he saw another jeep coming towards him. Reversing, Arthur cut his glance between the road in front and the road behind. He was forced to duck again as the jeep before him opened fire.

Desperate, Arthur slammed his foot to the accelerator. The car shot forward, mounting the pavement as Arthur swung the wheel in a kamikaze gambit. It was enough. The jeeps were not as easy to manoeuvre on Chelyabinsk’s streets and those precious few seconds gave Arthur the time he needed. Dumping the car, Arthur threw himself onto the street. He ran. Pedestrians leapt out of his way, yelling as he jumped a barricade into a metro station.

There was evidence of construction crews everywhere, but thankfully people seemed to be scarce. Arthur tore through the tunnels: the emergency lights providing just enough light to see by. He could hear footsteps echoing behind him; knew that soon Polyenkov’s men would catch him. Throwing himself into a recess, Arthur scrambled for his phone. The signal was low – wavering as Arthur punched desperately at the keys. His fingers slammed down onto the ‘send’ key just as a bullet bit into the wall above his head. The next bullet caught him in the chest.

Arthur dropped the phone.

He never saw whether or not the message had sent.

* * *

Eames had thrown the alarm clock across the room and listened to it shatter into pieces before he realised the beeping was coming from his phone. Cursing a blue-streak Eames levered himself out of bed. The phone was in his trouser pocket; the trousers had somehow found their way onto his window sill. Eames really needed to take more care in getting undressed.

Glaring blearily down at the tinny device, Eames stared at the blinking message on his screen: _1 new message_. Eames contemplated dropping the phone back to the floor but curiosity got the better of him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Eames let his trousers fall where they may. Jabbing a thumb onto his phone, Eames drew up his ‘1 new message’. The number was unknown.

_Tdlm smit steui eneedsh is help_

Eames blinked and read the message again. It made no more sense the second time around. Still, there was something about the letters that nagged at him. Wriggling further up the bed, Eames dug around in his nightstand. He extracted paper and pen, turning onto his side to write the message out in full: Tdlm smit steui eneedsh is help. Thoughtfully, Eames circled the last two words: they at least made sense. Mistakes were made texting all the time – bloody thing was damn difficult. Reviewing the text again, Eames adapted the last words to ‘needs his help’. Alarm bells starting ringing. Panicked, Eames scrambled for the key pad of his phone. Glancing at the letter groups, he swore; swore and kept swearing.

_Tell smith stevie needs his help_

It was a phrase Eames had never expected to hear again. And only one person would have known to use it. Eames was already off the bed and reaching for his gun-safe before he thought to question his actions. What did he owe Arthur? There was only so much loyalty a few years of serving together could buy. And if Arthur’s behaviour was anything to go by, Eames had used his up years ago. But Arthur had sent a m’aidez. Their old S.O.S: the one he knew would lead Eames straight to him. Eames spun the dial on his safe and grabbed the Browning from inside. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear, Eames called Cobb.

“Where’s Arthur?”

“Eames?”

“Yes. Now where’s Arthur?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“You know Cobb, I really don’t have time for this. Where is he?”

Dom must have heard something in his voice; a tension Eames was not trying particularly hard to hide. “Chelyabinsk. Said he had a meeting there.”

“Right.” Eames threw some old BDU’s into a duffle and tossed some socks and underwear on top of them. “Thanks.”

“Is Arthur alright? Eames, if Arthur’s in trouble –”

“He’s not. I am.” Cobb did not question the assertion. Whether it was because he believed the lie or just believed that of Eames was unclear. Frankly, Eames did not care. Not as long as it kept Cobb fouling the wheels. “Thanks for the information. I appreciate it.” Eames snapped the phone shut; Cobb’s farewell cut off mid-word.

Zipping his bag shut, Eames snatched what clean clothes he could. With his combat boots and newly shorn hair, Eames looked like every other mercenary out there. He stepped out into the Mombasa heat, jumping off the ledge of a step that served as his front porch. The people in the market place instinctively gave him a wide berth; eyeing the holster on his hip with trepidation. Eames was well-known enough in his own neighbourhood that no one actually questioned him, but as he wove through more unfamiliar streets, Eames made sure the bag hid the gun from view. He flagged a taxi once he had left the familiar faces behind.

The taxi driver kept up a steady stream all the way to the airport. Apparently his eldest girl was set on marrying an ambitious young man who was set on moving to Nairobi.

“ – and I’ve told her: stay where your family are. You’ll need that support network when you get pregnant. Moving to another city’s all well and good but you’re going to want your mother and sisters around you. It can be lonely not having anyone to talk to. But she says: no. He wants to go, so she wants to go. And I say: well don’t come crying to me when you wish you’d stayed here.”

Eames chewed on a nail as the scenery rolled by. He would need to get the lay of the land as soon as he landed in Russia. There was a woman Eames knew in Moscow who would be able to outfit him with weapons and transport for a price. But finding Arthur in the mess that was Chelyabinsk’s underbelly was going to be another matter all together – if he was even still in Chelyabinsk, let alone alive.

It surprised Eames just how concerned he was about Arthur’s well-being. This was more than professional admiration. Though how Eames had become so personally invested in Arthur’s continued existence was a mystery. Eames’ libido usually had a better self-preservation instinct than this.

The airport was filled with hurrying people, hauling baggage after them. Eames dodged errant children, pushing his way towards the ticket desk. The Browning was already stowed in his luggage, leaving Eames with impeccably forged papers that marked him as an agent of Interpol. It was good work – if Eames did say so himself. The woman at the check-in desk gave Eames a quick up-down but her face held that professionally blank quality that all people who excelled at airline service eventually achieved. She processed Eames luggage and handed over the boarding pass, painted nails clicking against the countertop.

“Thank you.”

Ideally, Eames would have liked to keep the duffle as hand luggage but nowadays even law enforcement was finding it difficult to get permission to carry on-board. The last thing Eames needed was some over-zealous official checking his credentials.

The time to Moscow seemed interminable and by the time Eames landed he had taken to tapping irregular tunes against his knee – much to the annoyance of the woman sitting next to him. Eames had not had occasion to speak Russian in years and his first few exchanges with the taxi driver were little more than mangled syntax and a hodge-podge of vocabulary. Eventually, old habits returned and Eames succeeded in giving directions to an ugly set of flats balanced at the outskirts of the city.

A dog squatted by the front steps: deflated ball in its mouth and eyes a little bloodshot. It had the air of a beloved and tolerated pet and sure enough a little boy came tearing out the door, eyes fixed on the mutt. He barrelled straight into Eames’ kneecaps and only Eames’ quick reactions prevented the crown of his head from hitting somewhere much more painful.

“Careful.” Eames admonished, stepped around the child and into the gloom of the entryway.

Irena’s apartment was at the top of the building. The paint was peeling on the door, cheap ply-board peeking out from underneath. Eames rapped twice, sharply, listening to the clatter of pans inside and a smoke-riddled voice scolding him through the wood. The door opened rather abruptly, leaving Eames to stare down into the face of a tiny, world-weary woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

She beckoned Eames with a wave. He shut the door behind him, dropping his bag by the entry way. The gun was already back on his hip.

“What do you need? And you better be paying me for this.”

“Same deal as last time.”

“Hmph.” Eames watched as Irena limped over to the counter and plucked a map from the surface. “The car is already waiting for you outside. Everything else you wanted is here.” She indicated a spot on the map. “I called a friend – a man who likes to have his fingers in every pie. He says your CIA tried to throw a loop over an arms dealer named Polyenkov. No one knows why but they know it didn’t take. Polyenkov nearly burned the city to the ground he was so angry. Now he’s busy making an example of your friend.”

“How much of an example.”

Irena huffed and stubbed out her cigarette. “Do not pin too much hope of finding him with all limbs attached.”

Eames swore. “Do you know where Polyenkov is now?”

“He keeps a place out near the testing facilities. People around there know enough to pretend not to hear the screams.” She slid a set of keys into Eames’ palm. “Good luck. Polyenkov is not a sadist but he has a lot of pride.”

Eames kissed her cheek in thanks – more out of habit than anything else – and gathered his bags. “I’ll have the money wired to your account.”

Irena nodded; another cigarette already between her lips. “I would hope for him to be alive when you find him. But perhaps he would be better dead.”

Eames let the door slam on the way out.

* * *

Arthur stared at the stained, concrete floor at his feet. Damp and dirt painted abstract whorls. Arthur was fairly sure there was a good amount of blood in there too. The scrap wrapped around his thigh was already sodden. Polyenkov had given orders to keep Arthur alive but only just. Arthur could no longer feel his hands.

Heels clicked against the concrete. Arthur struggled to raise his head. Polyenkov’s bulbous face swam into view.

“Are you ready to tell me just how much the CIA knows about my operation?” Arthur shook his head. Polyenkov drove his knife into Arthur’s left thigh. Arthur screamed through gritted teeth. “You’re refusal to cooperate is annoying. I do not like people who annoy me.” Arthur panted. Polyenkov twisted the knife in further. Arthur still did not say anything. Polyenkov straightened with a snap. “Nicholai. Get in here.” The thin man from the warehouse scurried in carrying a sleek, black case. He knelt by Arthur’s feet, undoing the case zip to reveal a medical syringe and several clear vials. Arthur gritted his teeth.

“Sodium pentothal,” Polyenkov said. “Perhaps it will loosen your tongue.” Nicholai readied the syringe, clearing the needle of any air. Arthur watched as the metal sank beneath his skin; watched at the plunger depressed. Polyenkov grunted. “How long until it takes effect?”

“Two minutes.”

Arthur let his head hang towards his chest. He had spent nearly a decade in dreams. That amount of mental conditioning should, theoretically, render the truth serum ineffectual. But Arthur had never had occasion to test the hypothesis.

“You will tell me what I want to know.” Polyenkov said. “And then you will tell me about all the things I have no interest in – because you will tell me _anything_ to make the pain stop.”

Arthur swallowed thickly. “Go to hell.”

Polyenkov laughed. Arthur felt slightly drunk. There was a fog in his head; his tongue felt too large for his mouth. Still, he managed to generate enough saliva to spit in Polyenkov’s face. It earned him a backhand across the cheek. A punch would have hurt more.

The bullet caught Arthur entirely off guard. One moment Polyenkov was breathing heavily into Arthur’s face, the next Polyenkov’s full weight was bearing down on the knife still embedded in Arthur’s leg and his brains were leaking into Arthur’s lap. Nicholai’s scream was cut off with a spray of blood. Arthur’s vision was white. He tried to shift; to push Polyenkov’s weight from off him but it was no good.

Feet were rushing across the distance. Someone hauled Polyenkov away and then Arthur was staring through streaming eyes at Eames.

“Jesus, you came.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eames took in the stab wounds in both legs; the bulging joint of Arthur’s dislocated shoulder; the splintered mess of both shins. “ _Christ_.”

Arthur laughed; spittle and blood bubbling past his lips. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“I know. Arthur, I know.” Eames’ hand was running across Arthur’s cheek. “I need you to stay awake – okay, Arthur? Stay awake.”

Blood burst like fire into Arthur’s fingers as Eames cut the zip-ties binding them. Arthur felt tears streaming down his face and he did not have the energy to be ashamed. Eames pulled a medkit from the pack on his back. He bound Arthur’s legs as best he was able. The grey colour of Arthur’s face was not comforting.

“I’m going to have to carry you.”

Arthur was not about to object. He thought to ask whether they would encounter resistance as they left but the bodies on the floor seemed to answer that question. With a whispered apology Eames hoisted him in a fireman’s lift. Arthur was promptly sick. The world swam in streams of fire. Eames was as careful as possible but every step sent a bolt of agony down Arthur’s spine. Dimly, he felt Eames stroke a hand down the back of his thigh.

“Feel free to pass out, Arthur. We’re safe now.”

Arthur wasted no time in obeying.

* * *

The next time Arthur was truly aware of his surroundings he woke up in a hospital. A nurse with curls of dark hair and big doe-eyes was standing by his bedside.

“Your brother will be glad to see you awake. He will be back soon. He only went for some coffee.”

It took Arthur a moment to place the language as Italian. If the nurse was talking of his ‘brother’ then hopefully Eames was nearby. Vaguely, Arthur gestured towards his mouth. Dutifully, the nurse held a cup with a straw close to his face. Arthur drank, feeling his vocal cords open up as the water slid down his throat.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The nurse smiled. It was a very pretty smile. She left and Arthur made a mad scrabble for his totem. Some habits were hard to break but Arthur could not find it. He usually kept the die in his pocket but now –

“Table to your right.”

Arthur twisted painfully, snatching the little red cube and rolling it once, twice. The hospital had felt like reality, but it was better – now he was sure. Looking back, Arthur saw Eames standing in the doorway. He was unshaven.

“How are you feeling?”

“Alive. Can you help me sit up?”

Eames helped him raise the bed and manoeuvre into a sitting position. The effort made Arthur’s head spin but the sensation faded much faster than he had been expecting.

“Where am I?”

“A private hospital in Venice. Your doctor’s an old friend of mine.”

“How long have I been out?”

“It’s been four days since I found you. You’ve been sliding in and out of consciousness but I doubt you remember it.” He was right; Arthur had no recollection of anything after Chelyabinsk. He wanted to ask how Eames had got him from Russia to Venice but he could not think of a way to phrase it that did not sound ungrateful.

“Fallout?”

“None. Polyenkov was a large enough player that his competitors are glad to see him gone. But he didn’t have a successor. There’s no one gunning for us.”

Arthur nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

Eames took a seat close to the bed. Looking at him more closely, Arthur could see the crow’s feet around Eames’ eyes were deeper than usual.

“Thank you.” Arthur said. The words seemed poor and insufficient in the open air. “Thank you for coming.”

“You sent the S.O.S.”

“I wasn’t sure it had gone through.” Arthur was so tired. A part of him had believed he was going to die; tortured to death, with no one to mourn his passing. His eyes slid shut.

When he woke again, Eames was still sitting in the same chair.

“It meant something to you, didn’t it?” Arthur asked. “Brothers in Arms.”

“Yes, Arthur. It meant something to me.” The mockery in Eames’ voice kicked at something in Arthur’s chest.

“It meant something to me too.” Arthur confessed. “At the time.” At least, he thought it had. Maybe he had been fooling himself. Is that sort of sentiment something you can grow out of? Or had Arthur simply been lying to himself at his young and tender age?

“I don’t understand you.”

Arthur laughed. It hurt. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

Eames was frowning at him. “You should get some rest. I have an apartment here, you can use once they release you.”

“Thanks.” Arthur said. He could already feel sleep dragging at him. “Just – thanks.”

“Anytime.” Arthur did not think Eames meant it – but it was a nice thought all the same.

* * *

The apartment Eames kept in Venice was exquisite. It was clear that this was Eames’ own private bank-vault – his safe house for all his favourite ‘liberated’ works. There was a Caravaggio hanging in Eames’ dining area that Arthur was sure he had seen in the Borghese.

Eames himself had not deigned to join Arthur in the apartment. To the best of Arthur’s knowledge Eames was back in Mombasa. Stepping out onto the balcony, Arthur admired the view over the rooftops of Venice. The setting sun bled into the dome of St Mark’s. The bells chimed, sending a flurry of birds shooting toward the sky in indignation.

Idly, Arthur fingered the stitches running along his right thigh. He could feel the ridge of tissue even through the wool of his trousers. There was a matching mound on his left leg. Doctors could only do so much.

Scrolling through his contacts, Arthur dialled Cobb’s number.

“Arthur. Jesus. Where the hell have you been?”

“Busy.”

“You know just because Eames snaps his fingers doesn’t mean you have to come to his rescue.”

Arthur frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Cobb did not seem to be listening. “I gave him your location because I figured if you didn’t want to help, you’d simply tell him to shove it. But really Arthur – you don’t always have to fix other people’s problems.”

Arthur contemplated and discarded several rejoinders to that statement. In the end he settled for the path of least resistance. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. But for the record Eames was sorting my mess- not the other way around.”

“He said he was in trouble.”

“He lied.”

Cobb swore. In the background Arthur could hear Phillipa squeal in scandalised delight. “When are you coming home?”

Arthur sighed. “Not for a while. I need to lay low for a while.” He paused then offered his coup de grace. “And I don’t want to put the kids in danger.” If Eames was right – and all Arthur’s inquiries indicated that he was – there was absolutely nothing to stop Arthur from returning to L.A. but Dom did not need to know that.

“How bad is it?” There was genuine concern in Cobb’s voice. It would have been easier to stomach had it not been layered beneath moral superiority. The world according to Dom: if Arthur had consulted him to begin with, none of this ever would have happened.

“Bad enough.” Arthur answered. “I’ll stay here for a while. Come back to L.A. once the heat’s died down. Say hi to the kids for me?”

“Sure.” Dom paused. “Did you want to talk to them?”

“No – that’s fine. I’ll say hi when I’m closer to coming back to L.A. Two days still seem like two years to them. Several months will be almost incomprehensible.”

Cobb laughed. “Yeah. Kids, huh?”

“Yeah. Kids.”

Something smashed on the other end of the phone. There was a flurry of words and then Dom was speaking again. “James just broke a plate. I have to go. Say hi to Eames for me.”

“Sure.” Arthur said but he was speaking to the dial tone.

Warm air blew across Arthur’s face, bringing with it the scent of a neighbour’s flower box and beneath that the pungent scent of the city. Resting his weight against the balcony rail, Arthur let his mind drift.

At some point Arthur needed to revive his old networks. Someone else now had Polyenkov’s weapon cache. No doubt they also had his supplier. They needed to know who that supplier was but Arthur harboured no allusions that it would still be his assignment. The failure rankled.

Eames’ judgement was no easier to accept. Whether or not there was now a debt between them, Arthur could not tell. Eames played by a different set of rules: honour, chivalry, camaraderie. The concepts seemed entirely alien. That Eames would give someone such unwavering loyalty simply because they had once been part of a team was, to Arthur, bizarre. But then, Eames had made it clear he could not fathom Arthur’s logic either: to work for whichever master granted him to most autonomy and the highest wage. Sighing, Arthur rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Time could change so many things.

Removing his hand, Arthur ran a thumb over the scar that bisected his palm. It was nearly invisible now. But he still remembered how he got it. The broken bottle had been intended for Eames’ face. Arthur had got the drunk’s arm mid-swing. The barman had summarily thrown them all from the premises – despite the fact that it had been the soldiers in the bar that had stopped the fight from getting any worse. Drunks were nothing but belligerent when their sports teams lost. Eames had laughed and sworn and dragged Arthur to the hospital on Post to get his hand sewn back together: the official story was that Arthur had dropped a glass. With a start, Arthur realise he could no longer remember any of their old team’s voices. Dimly, he could recall their faces but in his mind they all sounded like either himself or Eames. And that was wrong because Scholtz’ drawl had been thick enough to walk on; Arthur knew that. His fingers itched for a PASIV.

Arthur stayed out on the balcony until darkness wrapped around the city. The tourists in the streets below screamed with laughter. Arthur ignored it all and tried to recall Scholtz’ voice.

It did not work.

* * *

Eames’ arm was braced against Arthur’s throat before he even realised the bathroom door was open. The pounding spray of the shower echoed in the small room. Eames’ shirt was soaked; hair plastered to his face. He looked furious.

“You piece of shit. You fucking piece of shit.”

Arthur gasped for air. His fingers scrabbled for the gun he had placed on the window sill. Eames knocked his hand away.

“How much did they pay you? Hm? How much to sell her out?”

Arthur dragged his nails against Eames’skin. “What the hell are you on about?” The words wheezed from Arthur’s throat but they were understandable.

“Ariadne. You’re friends made a grab for her again. I didn’t get there in time.”

Arthur shook his head violently. “Wasn’t me. Thought you had her safe. Didn’t know where. Didn’t care.”

Eames dropped his hold. Arthur sucked in a desperate breath of air, massaging his throat. Eames stared at him.

“It wasn’t you?”

“No.” Arthur said, glaring. “Check your seals elsewhere.”

Eames’ kiss was brutal and entirely unexpected. Arthur squawked, eyes going wide with shock. Eames took the opportunity to snake his tongue past Arthur’s lips. Arthur bit down – _hard_. There was blood spilling over Eames’ teeth when he pulled away. Arthur stared at him: pupils blown, lips bruised. He looked a mess, soaking wet.

Eames raised an eyebrow, smirk curving his lips. Arthur hated being bested. With a snarl he pushed forward, smashing into Eames’ chest. Eames stumbled back, fumbling to brace Arthur’s weight. Their kiss was more teeth than anything else. The shower was still running.

Eames dragged Arthur back towards the bed. They tumbled to the sheets, twisting and fighting one another. Arthur dug his fingers between Eames’ ribs. Eames dragged his nails across the bruises still decorating Arthur’s side. Arthur got his hand around the lube first.

The first finger sank in easily. “Done this recently have you, Eames?” Eames swore at him and sank his teeth into Arthur’s ear. “ _Shit_.” The second finger had Eames arching off the bed with a curse. The third had his eyes rolling back into his head; hitting Eames’ prostate reduced him to a quivering mess. Arthur revelled in the victory.

Eames was hot and tight around him. Arthur had to fight not to come prematurely; it had been _far_ too long. The problem was exacerbated when Eames shoved rudely back onto Arthur’s cock.

“Get on with it.”

With a snarl, Arthur snapped his hips. Eames gasped, hands wrapped around the headboard. It was a miracle he didn’t break his fingers every time the thing slammed into the wall.

Arthur set a brutal place. He stripped Eames’ cock with vicious strokes, dragging Eames towards orgasm before he truly had a chance to enjoy it. Eames came swearing, leaving Arthur to pound towards his own release. He dragged his hand through Eames’ hair, spreading the mess through the sweat trapped there. Eames cursed and bucked but Arthur was already spilling himself all over the back of Eames’ thighs.

Laughing, Arthur fell to the side, catcalling when Eames snarled at him and stalked into the bathroom. The euphoria of the orgasm left Arthur light and strung-out. He pressed a hand across his eyes; his giggles would not be stifled. The echoes changed as Eames stepped into the shower – no doubt to wash the come out of his hair. Arthur felt a strangely hollow feeling spreading through his stomach. By the time Eames emerged from the bathroom Arthur had stopped laughing.

Eames stared at him, eyes unreadable. “Shall we try that again?”

Arthur looked at him: naked, wet. Arthur felt want burn through his gut. “Yeah.” He reached a hand towards Eames, pulling him back onto the bed. “Yeah. _Eames_.”

This time, the kiss felt more like Arthur remembered kisses feeling.

* * *

“I’ll have to head back to L.A. soon.” Arthur regretted the words almost as soon as he said them. They were true, but the conversation could have waited. Eames put his wineglass back on the table. Around them the other patrons of the restaurant chattered and laughed.

“Back to Cobb?”

Arthur shook his head. “The Polyenkov _débacle_ ’s on my head. Langley is – less than pleased that I’ve been gone this long.”

“So you really are still working for them?” Eames asked. “I thought that was just all smoke and mirrors.”

“They pay well.” Arthur said. Eames made a noise, smoothing it with another sip of wine. “I wish I could say it was more than that.” Arthur said – and for the first time in his memory he actually meant that. “But I can’t. It’s just the money, Eames.”

“But wishing that it wasn’t is something, at least.”

Arthur sighed. “But is it enough: that’s the question.”

“Arthur.” Eames said. He sounded so painfully earnest that Arthur met his gaze. “It’s enough. For now, it’s enough.”

Arthur nodded, offering an approximation of a smile. Eames looked like he wanted to reach across the table and hold Arthur’s hand. He could not quite decide how he felt about the fact that Eames refrained.

“How about we head back to the apartment?” Eames said. “I have something I want to show you.”

They wandered through the Venetian streets, arms brushing as they walked. Eames did not say anything when Arthur’s hand slipped around his wrist – not quite holding on – but Arthur could see his slight smile reflected in a shop window.

What Arthur was not prepared for, when they arrived back at the apartment, was for Eames to remove a familiar silver briefcase from the safe.

“Eames.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to Dream.”

“I dream naturally these days.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that going for you? Hm?” Arthur scowled, feeling wrong footed. “If you gave this up because you tired of it, Arthur, fair enough – I won’t bring it up again. But if you gave it up out of some sort of masochistic attachment to _Cobb_ then I think you need this.”

Arthur was already stroking his hands across the lid. He made no objection when Eames started uncoiling wire and readying the needles.

“One of Yusuf’s compounds?”

“I don’t use anything else these days.”

Arthur slid the cannula into his wrist. “How is he?”

“Do you care?”

“Eames, how many people _actually_ care when they ask that question?”

“Fair point. He’s fine – by the way.”

“Good.” Arthur lay back against the sofa. Eames waited for his nod and then released the Somnacin.

Dreaming was better than Arthur remembered.

* * *

“God.”

Eames laughed and it was wrong. Turning, Arthur found himself looking at the round, matronly woman who lived below them.

“No.” Arthur said. Eames’ laugh was his own this time. They were standing in the middle of a street that could have been anywhere in the Mediterranean. Tugging on his hand, Eames led Arthur inside one of the buildings off the main square. The inside was completely barren: just four walls, a roof and a floor.

“Go ahead.” Eames said. “Build your paradoxes.”

Arthur smiled and watched as a staircase rose out of the dust on the floor. It twisted in an endless loop: the perfect Penrose steps. Eames gave him an indulgent look, grinning widely when Arthur connected the dots.

“I shouldn’t be able to change things if you’re the architect.”

“I’m a forger, pet. Things are constantly different from what they should be down here.”

Arthur blinked, the words he was going to say drying in his throat. How long had it been since Eames had called him something other than his own name? Eames did not even seem to register that he had said anything strange.

Slowly, Arthur tilted Eames’ face towards him. His fingers traced the stubble that seemed to be permanently gracing Eames’ chin. Eames’ hands settled easily on Arthur’s hips.

“Thank you, for this.” Arthur said. “I had forgotten what it was like to have Dreams.”

Eames smiled. “Glad I could be of service.” The dreamscape around them wavered and Arthur looked around to see a generic hotel bedroom with an appallingly large bed. The tilt of Eames’ eyebrow said everything: no refractory period in dreams.

* * *

L.A. was far less interesting than Arthur remembered. It certainly lacked the allure of Venice. The traffic was certainly less appealing. Eames squinted at the baggage carousel. His face looked slack and pallid; he obviously had not slept on the plane.

Instead, Eames fell asleep on the journey home. The taxi driver smothered a chuckle as Eames’ head tipped down onto Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur patted his head rather awkwardly before turning his attention to the world outside.

He would need to visit Dom at some point and make nice with various agencies. The Feds would be pissed and it would take a few months of meek cooperation to calm the waters.

The taxi slowed to a halt outside Arthur’s house. The garden was still well-kept thanks to the service Arthur employed and with any luck the interior would be the same. Passing the fee through to the driver, Arthur roused Eames with a quick shake to the shoulder. Years of combat training showed in the sudden snap-jerk of Eames’ head as he came awake, the instant appraisal of his surrounding before he had even begun to move. Arthur gave a half smile and slid from the car.

Eames took himself straight to the bedroom the moment they were through the door. Arthur thought about following but with a sigh he settled himself in his office. The phone calls he made went as about expected. Dom was annoyed that Arthur had been gone for so long but was easily mollified with empty platitudes. The alphabet agencies, on the other hand, were less willing to be appeased. Arthur sat through several hours of gruelling interrogations complete with all the necessary amounts of bureaucratic grandstanding needed to make the big-boys feel satisfied. It ended with Arthur free of charges – even those ones the FBI liked to sit on for a rainy day – but with rather less autonomy than that to which he had become accustomed. And it would remain that way until Arthur found the time to lift the requisite evidence from FBI storage.

There was still the matter of how Polyenkov had known he was attached to the CIA. And who it was that had given away Ariadne’s location. The latter issue was more Eames’ concern than his own, but the former bothered Arthur tremendously.

If all had gone according to plan, the fingerprint Polyenkov’s man had taken would have led straight to Mr. Fontane’s criminal record: years of military service, dishonourable discharge, time in jail etc. Instead Polyenkov had drawn the straw that read ‘CIA’, despite the fact that there was no official record naming Arthur such. Someone had a file. And it was someone who knew enough of Arthur’s past to know who he was liable to work for these days and on what sort of jobs.

He had already relayed these suspicions to the agent in charge of the operation. It was a risk but if _he_ was the leak then Arthur was giving him nothing he did not already know. And if not, then the information would be valuable. Either way, it left Arthur in a vulnerable position and it was not one he liked.

The door swung open behind him. Arthur turned. Eames was leaning against the doorjamb, one hand rubbing idly over his jaw.

“You coming to bed?”

“It’s four in the afternoon, Mr. Eames.”

Eames cocked an eyebrow. “And?”

Arthur was tempted. Part of him wanted nothing more than to press Eames against the mattress, fuck into him nice and deep and slow, make Eames whine and beg and curse. But he simply did not have the time at the moment.

“I have to get this finished.” Arthur said, indicating the files spread across his desk.

“Are you likely to solve the problem in the next few hours?” Eames knew the answer was ‘no’. “Then come to bed.”

“Compromise.” Arthur said. “Ten minutes on the PASIV.” It was the most he was willing to concede. They both knew that with Yusuf’s compound they would get more than the usual realtime:dreamtime ratio.

“Fine.” Eames said. “Now come to bed.”

Arthur was expecting Eames to drop them into an opulent hotel; somewhere secluded and private where they could scream the house down. Instead, Arthur saw nothing but a handful of trees and a hammock strung between two of the trunks.

The hammock rocked slowly as Eames settled his weight on it, curling Arthur into his arms, for all that Arthur tried to keep his feet on the ground.

“Relax.” Eames instructed. With a huff, Arthur let himself collapse into the mesh of the webbing. The rope flexed and warped, trying to accommodate their shape. Eames was asleep within moments, hand pressed over Arthur’s heart, breath warm over his ear. Arthur remained awake. Sunlight dappled through the trees. Idly, Arthur rubbed his thumb over the back of Eames’ hand. He stayed, staring at the sun-shadowed ground three feet away, until the timer wound down and the last of the Somnacin faded from their veins.

* * *

Arthur greeted the cooler temperatures of Autumn with relief. The heat made his latest scars feel uncomfortably swollen. Eames seemed entirely unfazed. Arthur’s neighbours had silently accepted Eames’ presence in the community. He was as much a part of the local scenery as anyone else. Mrs. Schulyer had been quick to assure Arthur that this was an open-minded neighbourhood; that her husband was a firm supporter of equal-rights should Arthur be thinking of voting in the next local election. The neighbours with the dog always wanted to know where Eames had gone whenever he left for a job: their daughter harboured something of a crush.

Measuring a liberal amount of gin into a glass, Arthur popped the tab on the can of tonic water. “You’ve been working on that job for months.” Arthur said. “Are you any closer to getting what you need?”

Eames grunted, eyes focused on the schematics laid out in front of him. He had resolutely refused to allow Arthur any access and wherever he was keeping the plans, it was not in the house; Arthur had searched.

“Nearly.” Eames said. “Kick-off should be in the next week or so. Just waiting for the final players to get in position.”

“How long will you be gone?”

Eames stilled minutely. Arthur would not have noticed had he not been watching so closely. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I’m welcome back here afterwards?”

Arthur took a healthy sip of his drink. “How much heat would there be?”

“If everything goes off without a hitch the heat should blow elsewhere. If something goes wrong – a lot. Either way it would take me about a week to get here after the job. Probably closer to two.”

“Come back here.” Arthur decided. “We’ll run it like we used to. If I notice anyone watching the house I’ll let you know.”

Eames leant over the table, dragging Arthur into a kiss. “Thank you.” He said. “I know you hate operating without information.”

“I know I’m not going to like whatever it is you’re stealing, Eames. If you thought I’d be willing to help you’d have asked for my input.”

“But I can come back here anyway?”

“Libera eam ex inferis.” Arthur said against Eames’ lips. “Free her from hell.”

Eames jerked back. “You –”

“I’m not stupid, Eames.”

“No. No, I don’t suppose you are.” Eames wet his lips. “You won’t stop me?”

“You said it yourself: I pitch for anyone who lets me play how _I_ want. I’m sick of being kept on the bench.”

Eames smiled. “That was a lot of sporting metaphors.”

Arthur kissed him. “Perhaps.”He pulled away. “Now get back to it. If you feel like leaving a back-door by the way, I’d appreciate it. I’d like to know the progress of the Polyenkov situation.”

“Sure.” Eames said. He was smiling. “Welcome back Lieutenant.”

Arthur laughed. “Bastard.”

Eames continued to grin.

* * *

They came for him in the night. Eames had been gone for over a week and Arthur had been burning the midnight oil searching for any indication that something had gone wrong; that someone had caught on. But it seemed safe.

Eames’ latest identity pinged in London. Arthur would have thought trading the CIA for the SIS was just a different cage but Eames still had friends in the service so perhaps it was just a temporary measure. He had heard nothing else since. Langley was chasing its tail, spitting with fury. They were looking at Arthur; they were looking at Eames. But Arthur had been very obviously in Los Angeles for the past month and Eames, according to her Majesty, was somewhere in the Afghani mountains: training snipers.

Neither of them had been expecting this.

How they had infiltrated the house without Arthur noticing, Arthur did not know. Obviously he was not as good as he thought he was. The food had been drugged. Arthur was out before night fell. After that it was easy for them to gain entry.

Arthur woke strapped to a chair. The situation was eerily familiar save for the rifle strapped against his back; muzzle pressed to the back of his skull.

“You must think I’m very stupid.”

Arthur could not see who it was that spoke but he recognised the voice.

“Not really. I just thought we were smarter.”

There was a persistent, low-level drumbeat rolling through his temples. Arthur winced, trying to conjure some moisture in his dry mouth. There was nothing he could do about the headache. The weight of the gun barrel was a constant pressure; forcing his head forward at an angle.

The voice chuckled. Arthur could see blank-eyed men and women arrayed around the room. He did not recognise any of the faces.

“How long will it be, do you think, before Mr. Eames returns?”

“He won’t come here.” Arthur said.

“Oh my boy. You should know better than to lie to me.”

Arthur coughed. “He won’t come.”

“Of course he will.” There was a shift in the air behind Arthur. It was enough of a warning that he did not flinch when hands rested on his shoulders. “Your man is that rare breed: an honourable thief. He will come back here, because he told you he would. And once he arrives, I think he will find himself highly amenable to negotiations: in particular with regards to the current location of our architect.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “Why do you want her so badly? There are other architects.”

“Because I want the best. We are still fighting a war, my boy. And we need every soldier we can get.”

Arthur wheezed. The angle of his head was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Outside the sun was rising. In a couple of hours Arthur’s neighbours would be rising; by afternoon Eames would be home. Despite what he had said, Arthur knew to expect Eames today.

The room fell silent. The weight lifted from Arthur’s shoulders and he heard three – maybe four – people leave the room. Those who were left were all standing in front of him. As subtly as he could, Arthur began twisting his hands against his bonds. The zip-ties cut into his wrists. Arthur squirmed; wrenching this way and that; trying desperately not to alert the agents in the room to his intent.

He harboured no allusions as to what would happen when Eames walked through that door. At best he would go down in a blaze of gunfire. At worst he would be tortured; ‘interrogated’. Arthur’s own fate was no doubt equally unpleasant.

The room continuously swelled and ebbed with people. Too often, Arthur was forced to still his hands as agents walked behind him.

The sun was fully in the sky. Arthur could hear the slam of car doors and parents calling children to hurry. If Arthur left it much later there would be no one around to hear. He needed people to hear. He needed Eames to know better than to walk through the door.

Abandoning all pretence, Arthur began to struggle in earnest. The young woman currently assigned to watch him laughed.

“You won’t escape. Stop trying.”

Arthur ignored it. With one final twist he did it. His finger curled against the rifle’s trigger. The woman was looking at him now, senses on alert. She stood. Arthur knew he had to act now.

He took a deep breath. He bowed his head.  
Perhaps this was the ‘Brother in Arms’ loyalty Eames had meant: dying for a friend. Either that or Arthur had managed to fall in love. As his finger pressed down upon the trigger Arthur wished he had the time to determine which.

The gunshot echoed through the suburban streets. Somewhere, outside, a woman screamed.

* * *

The press coverage was massive. The fallout was worse. It was perhaps one of the most viral images on the internet: a man bound to a chair, rifle at his back, blood splattered across the wall in front of him.

Silently, Eames ran his fingers across the wall. It was white again: re-plastered, re-painted. Eames could still feel a phantom wetness beneath his touch.

“We could move if you like.” The words were slightly slurred; would probably remain that way for the rest of Arthur’s life. He’d been lucky; the bullet had taken part of his skull but for the most part not done any serious damage. It could have been a very different story.

Arms snaked around Eames’ waist. “I’m alive. It’s okay.”

Eames clung to Arthur’s wrists. “Promise me you won’t _ever_ do something like that again.”

“I’ve already promised that Eames.”

“Promise again.”

“I promise I won’t shoot myself. Not in the head; not anywhere else.” Arthur laid a kiss on the back of Eames’ neck; turned Eames so he was forced to look Arthur in the face. “I promise.”

He let Eames kiss him. He could still taste the fear in Eames’ lips; knew that Eames had taken to compulsively checking his totem every time he looked in Arthur’s direction. But they would be okay.

They were safe now.

They would be okay.

**End.**


End file.
